


four times Kamenashi doesn't turn into Bem, and one time he does

by isolated_killer



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, Youkai Ningen Bem (TV 2011)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Community: je_squickfic, Identity Issues, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isolated_killer/pseuds/isolated_killer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kamenashi thinks he's turning into Bem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	four times Kamenashi doesn't turn into Bem, and one time he does

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is kind of inspired by the idea of [The Black Swan](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Swan_\(film\)) and [The Fly](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fly_\(1986_film\)) movies. Written for [JE_Squickfic 2012](http://je-squickfic.livejournal.com/).
> 
> "nervous breakdown", "insomnia", "loss of identity" for hurt/comfort_bingo.

"I think I'm turning into Bem."

Kamenashi unwillingly winds up the gloomy autumn day, the dull morning squeaking under the strong draughts that smell of burned coffee; as if protesting to this kind of extraordinary announcements, the door somewhere nearby slams shut. Confusion, along with the sleazy uncomfortable silence, fills the room and Kamenashi feels waxen, the lack of response trickling into his brain, eroding his lazy thoughts like acid. He doesn't even need to spare the room a single glance to know he's being stared at by his unenthusiastic group mates. His mouth feels dry and bitter, his throat - sore; a few hours ago, he had an unpleasant date with the sunrise, the yolk sun creeping up for a few minutes before bitchily hiding behind the clouds and him, desperately bent over the toilet, retching, vomiting out rice along with his insides. Kamenashi licks his dry lips, examining the deep unattractive cracks on them through the mirror, tiredly stooping in his seat. Sometimes, or, better say, most of the time these days, Kamenashi feels like his body does not, in fact, belong to him anymore.

"I think you're turning into a psycho. Clearly, you've not slept for weeks to utter nonsense like that."

Judging by the tone of his voice, Nakamaru is frowning right now, disapproving; the bento in front of him is forgotten in favour of a more important task, like discussing Kamenashi's state, _his sanity_. They, his band mates, seem to be doing that a lot lately, when they think he can't hear them; when he tries catching at least a few minutes of eluding precious sleep but failing miserably, destined to listen to their more curious, than worried whispers, as they foolishly think he's dead to the world. Honestly, most of the time, he does feel dead to the world. Kamenashi tunes them out. He doesn’t even have enough strength to wonder if all their latest talks happen to be about him.

His overworking, inability to sleep and constant worry about himself are literary killing him. But having accepted overworking as an integral part of his being, he mostly blames the insomnia. Insomnia turns reality into dirty greyish sand that seeps through his fingers no matter how hard he’s trying to grasp it. Not really able to comprehend his surroundings, he minimizes his actions outside the numerous filming and practicing places to the quiet sitting, _existing_ , in his living room; once sparkly clean, it’s now turned into his own personal garbage pail, littered with crushed beer cans, empty liquor bottles, cigarette butts and dirty plates he is too tired and cloudy to wash.

There is one constant unsettling thought that interrupts his daily routine of wasting his sleepless nights in his flat; dazed, by himself, sometimes not so much, but too out of it to acknowledge others’ presence by his side. Kamenashi knows he is the only one to blame for driving himself to extreme exhaustion; the unforgiving exhaustion brought insomnia. Insomnia, in its turn, brought cold merciless worry; its mechanical fingers squeeze his heart, too fast beats making it hard for him to breathe, _choking him_. Still, there is only one thought that haunts him and deprives him from the much needed stability.

"My body is changing.”

◊

Being the so-called gold mine of the agency and the youngest member of his group, Kamenashi often finds himself pampered in many less than subtle ways, useless privileges dropping on his head like hail. One of the few that he actually finds useful though, is the unyielding ability to manipulate his band mates; they, the annoyingly less popular lot, who act like they don’t care, the tiniest show of interest about anything concerning each other’s private lives loudly laughed at and unanimously considered ridiculous, remind him of dogs, always following him around, _always eager, and with their “tails” up_. They respond to his every call, ready to come to his rescue whenever he may need it, probably, getting much more out of their encounters than Kamenashi himself. He uses them, but they use him more.

The last couple of weeks his quiet unintelligible calls inevitably increase in number, randomly addressing the members at most ridiculous times of morning or evening, but it is not something extraordinary; Kamenashi’s been abusing his ultimate power over them for the last three years since the moment when Akanishi refused to handle his shit and decided to flee and, especially, since the second wave of nation-wide popularity hit him, leaving Kamenashi absolutely no spare time for dates, relationship, or friends. Hell, he barely has time to eat during the day, so, _no wonder_.

It is almost six o’clock in another gloomy morning sans a hint of sunshine in the sky, and there is a very sleepy and sluggish Nakamaru in his cold kitchen; the innocent man’s eyelids are drooped, his long eyelashes tangled and there is a tiny dried-out lump stuck in the corner of his right eye indicating that the poor guy did not even, in fact, wash his face, having been woken up too brutally to be able to comprehend his surroundings clearly. He is wearing one of his numerous painfully simple pairs of jeans and jumpers, looking more like a student living off his miserable scholarship rather than a rich idol from some famous boy band. The sleepy man’s forgotten to put on a belt in his haste to get to Kamenashi’s apartment as fast as a tired sleepy human being can; his jeans are riding low on his bony hips and Kamenashi finds himself hypnotized by his constant adjusting of his pants. With his short locks impossibly tousled, helpless Nakamaru is tiredly stooping over the kitchen sink, his moves mechanical, washing Kamenashi’s dirty dishes, knowing that the guy just won’t do it himself anymore; Kamenashi is sitting at his empty kitchen table, resembling fish taken out of the water, his mouth open in concentration, eyes bulged, his full attention riveted on the wet splotch on Nakamaru’s newly readjusted trousers.

"Do you want some, uh, tea or something? Maybe, you’re hungry? I can make you an omelet.”

He croaks, his rough voice cutting the silence between them like knife, and, after a long dull pause, Kamenashi snorts at his suggestion.

"Maru, I just puked. I called you because I puked. I don’t want anything. I just need company.”

Nakamaru cringes at the other’s squeaky voice, the lack of usage making Kamenashi sound like a whiny old man. He still puts up the water; for himself, as he reasons when Kamenashi gives him a blank look.

These nightly or morning visits are what Kamenashi craves for because when left all by himself to deal with his newly appeared mental problems, he’s dying a little inside ( _and maybe on the outside too, he isn’t so sure himself anymore)_ ; he has no one else to turn to, and being the last person on Earth to make his family worry, he quietly considers his band mates as the easiest and quickest option in case he needs _quick company_ or _a more time consuming visit._

The curt whistle of the electronic kettle marks the passionate start in Kamenashi’s limbs as he wraps them around Nakamaru’s middle, squeezing the unwilling man in his desperate embrace; he’s practically jumped off his seat to attach himself to his band mate, now able to press his face into the other’s shoulder blades and inhale his faint scent of sweat and soap, his energy again gone and forgotten. He does not look up to see the other’s face, Kamenashi never does; Nakamaru’s closed his eyes tightly, a frustrated, almost annoyed grimace on his face as he knows what’s coming and what’s required of him, the purpose of his being there always painfully clear and obvious.  

"You really need to find yourself a lover, Kame. You’re getting out of hand. A decent and nice woman would do you so much good, man.”

He whispers, purposefully sliding his fingertips along Kamenashi’s arms entwined around his waist. Quite unexpectedly, there is something disturbing about the feeling of Kamenashi’s bare absolutely hairless skin under his fingers, but he’s brushing it away; Kamenashi was doing this monster movie a month ago, _maybe_ the hair still hasn’t grown back yet. He’s distracted from his thoughts as Kamenashi replies, exhaling into his neck, his tone cold and void of emotion.

"I wish everything was that simple, Maru. I seriously do.”

"You can’t go on like that.”

Nakamaru’s palm is slipping towards Kamenashi’s hip, giving it a slight squeeze, and Kamenashi presses into Nakamaru’s back so closely, as if wanting to dissolve and become one with the other man, escape his own head and settle down to ruin another brain.

"What. You want to stop taking care of me, right? You’re tired of me.”

No reply is considered as a silent agreement and Nakamaru smartly chooses that moment to turn around and distract Kamenashi with his hands, dragging the other’s shirt off and gently tossing it on the floor as if to remind himself to fold it later. Kamenashi gives out a slight smile before catching Nakamaru’s collarbone in a harsh bite, making the other man yelp in surprise. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his teeth, pulls Kamenashi into a tight embrace and leaves it at that, letting the man do what he wants, _needs_ to do; sluggish lips imprint his skin with chaotic tiny red paths, as if a strayed wanderer was trying to find his way on a deserted pale desert of his skin. Tenacious fingers relieve him from his jeans and boxers, and grab his flaccid cock in a cold grasp; Nakamaru swallows and hopes he will be able to get aroused here, now, with this desperate shadow of a man tugging incessantly on his manhood. Kamenashi nudges his chin with his head that quietly settles on his chest and his fingers set the pace on Nakamaru’s cock they’ve learned he loves. One strangulated moan later, and the heat of Nakamaru’s cock can burn the skin of Kamenashi’s cold palm; ashamed, the man releases his hold on Kamenashi’s shoulders just to hurriedly pull him down onto the kitchen floor. It’s tiled but Kamenashi immediately falls back, readily dragging Nakamaru along with him; when his naked knees touch the floor, Nakamaru can’t hold back a yelp of surprise.

"Oh, shit, it’s so damn cold!”

Kamenashi, seemingly unperturbed by the iceberg touch of the tiles on his skin, just smiles in a mockery way; the cotton of his pants on his crotch already bears a small wet spot, and he is too eager to continue from where they left off, his blank eyes now full of mirth.

"You always curse when you’re aroused like this.”

"Shut up, I mean, how can you just lie here, aren’t you cold?!”

And then the heavy realization dawns on Kamenashi full force, his eyes widening in horror and his face turning a deadly pale color;

He can’t feel a thing.

His back as if marble arches off the floor as if it burns; only it doesn’t, just like the tea he was uncareful to spill over himself just yesterday, but he never paid heed to that strange occurrence. He stares in panic at Nakamaru’s hand on his hip; he is _almost_ sure it feels warm, he _knows_ it should be emitting the warmness but if it is real, or if it’s just in his head, he doesn’t know anymore.

"I’m afraid you have to leave, Maru.”

◊

Kamenashi is staring at the reflection in his mirror, his judgmental eyes heavy and merciless in their scrupulous exam of his own facial features; his pale cheeks and high frowning forehead, chapped lips and ferocious glare. He concentrates on his sharp features so intensely that the chirpy voice of Taguchi comes as a surprise; he’s startled awake from his reverie by his band mate’s loud greeting. He swings in his seat to send Taguchi a reprimanding glare and the guy looks taken aback by his strong reaction, carefully closing the door as not to disturb Kamenashi some more.

For a minute they continue coexisting in different realities when Taguchi unknowingly, _as usual,_ bursts his bubble; he comes closer to Kamenashi and puts a hand on his shoulder in what he thinks is a reassuring gesture.

"Nakamaru told me you aren’t feeling well these days, Kame. I hope everything will be alright eventually.”

Kamenashi shrugs his hand off, giving out a tired sigh, not having anything to reply him with. Taguchi, used to the ignorant attitude of his members, is satisfied with this kind of one-sided conversation and turns to leave Kamenashi to drown in his own reflection again, when a cold hand on his wrist stops him.

"Stay. Give me a massage. And tell me what Nakamaru told you. How am I not feeling well?”

Taguchi looks sincerely confused for a second, but then a smile lights up his face, wrinkles running over his smooth skin like creases on soft fabric. He’s slightly perplexed by the sudden and uncharacteristically quick change in Kamenashi’s behavior towards him, but being the kind person that he is, Taguchi readily lowers his soft palms on Kamenashi’s tensed shoulders and begins smoothing over the numerous knots in his muscles. Taguchi frowns as he speaks, not looking at Kamenashi but somewhere up at the whitewashed ceiling, as if trying hard to remember what were Nakamaru’s exact words.

"I’m not sure what he meant when he said something about the heat and cold places in your flat. He told me you stopped feeling cold so I thought I got him wrong and that something happened to the heating system in your house. Which sucks, really, I’ve had it happen in my house before, you’re either freezing your balls under ten blankets or trying to erect a tent in your fridge because it’s so hot. Of course, don’t even mention that simply get an erection in such circumstances in no less difficult.”

Taguchi grins when Kamenashi lets out a pained moan, half hurt by Taguchi’s strong thumbs pressing into his shoulder blades, half – by his stupid joke. He’s leaning into his hands, arching in pain, the crown of his head sinking into the softness of his cashmere sweater.

"I’m alright. I get by.”

Taguchi stays silent, too focused on the tension in Kamenashi’s body, as he tries applying more strength to his shoulders but it’s like the muscles have coarsened; he’s eventually reminded of stale meat, an old darkened piece of cooked beef that’s turned stone-cold, and Taguchi feels the nausea coming up his throat like a wave. He steps away from Kamenashi, raising his hands in an apologetic manner.

"Hey, why did you stop..?”

"Sorry, Kame, I can’t do it, you’re too tense for me, you need a professional, a real specialist to try and relieve you from all those knots in your muscles. Seriously, maybe, we should go to a hospital? I feel like you might have a serious problem with your back.”

Kamenashi waves a dismissive hand at him, glaring at the worried man through the mirror; Taguchi’s escapades with his shoulders only brought him more pain.

"If you don’t want to do it, just say so, no need to…”

He turns in his seat to look a cowered Taguchi in the eye and that is the exact dreadful moment when he notices _it;_ there, on Taguchi’s brown cashmere sweater. So sudden, like an arrow into his head, the horror pierces his mind and all his attention is focused on that one horrifying thing. _A long silver hair._ A fucking long silver hair from his head stuck to Taguchi’s stupid posh cashmere sweater.

He darts off his seat towards the mirror, knocking a couple of skin beauty regimes bottles off the table, staring intensely at his longish straight locks dyed deep brown. Once he’s done with filming, he lets his hair tangle in a messy heap on his head and now his searching fingers desperately comb through the messed up locks, panic’s steel claws squeezing his worn out heart.

"Kame, what..!”

Kamenashi does not deign staying and listening to Taguchi’s confused question, rushing out of the dressing room, as if caught on fire.

◊

There is this certain time when even the greatest workaholics of all time need to take a day off. It usually occurs unexpectedly, creating chaos in everyone’s schedules and causing havoc on filming sites; faceless staff literary doesn’t know how to react to situations like that. The last person on Earth to sabotage his own working place and schedules, there Kamenashi is, lying on his leather coach, half asleep but never really crossing this bricked line between the reality and dream, staring at the stars and planets projected on his ceiling, red-colored comets flying through the milky ways blending into bloody smudges on intricate coils of white bones. He closes his eyes and rubs his face with the palms of his hands hard enough for his skin to sting. His head is a mess, brain void of anything worth sparing a real thought, his heart having picked up a constant beat of fast African drums since a day before. Panic’s now not coming up in waves but having settled inside his heart, sitting on his chest like a gravestone sits on its grave.

He feels irreparable.

The entrance door suddenly clicks, and he hears the familiar shuffling of heavy boots on his dusty floors.

"Anyone home? Kame?”

"Come in.”

Kamenashi croaks, coughing, and Tanaka enters his living room, a deep frown set over his features because the harmless guy is always worried about his friend, always strangely sure Kamenashi needs his help in everything besides his job; the man probably considers himself his life savior or something. Tanaka stops dead in his track and gives a quiet whistle, pulling the sunglasses off his nose, staring at the mess that is Kamenashi’s living room: his piercing attentive eyes slowly take in the devastating condition of the premises just to linger on the owner of the clutter.

"Did you have a party?”

"I am having one right this moment actually. The one in my pants.”

Tanaka rolls his eyes at him, painfully aware of how Kamenashi’s jokes sometimes can be no better than Taguchi’s, and sets a big plastic bag stuffed to the top on the dirty table right in front of his unmoving friend. Kamenashi continues watching him with his eyes narrowed, as if suspecting Tanaka in committing some dangerous crime, not trusting the man’s curious eyes.

"Here, I said I’d be coming over so Nakamaru told me to buy you food. Ow, man, you gotta clean that up, what if your dogs eat it?”

He grabs a soiled napkin and bends over to wipe away the unattractive blotches of dried out yellowish mayonnaise, with a disgusted look on his face.

"The dogs are at my mother’s. I can barely take care of myself, no way I’d let my dogs suffer the same way. And why would you tell Nakamaru you were visiting me. Wait, why are you even here?”

Tanaka sends him a long prying look, stilling in his crouched position under the table; he looks like he wants to get under Kamenashi’s shell, _wants to get under his skin_ , to be able to understand him better and comprehend the weird things going on inside Kamenashi’s desperate head. But Kamenashi himself cannot, in fact, grasp his hold over the reality, knocking about his own brain where one thought is ten times worse than the other, scaring him out of his own socks; sometimes, he finds himself on the brick of crying, his own gore helpless thoughts make him want to claw his eyes out. He feels helpless and he cannot, for the life of him, explain what kind of horrifying things could cause his suffering. He is afraid he would completely lose his own faint sense of reality if he tries diving into the dark corners of his consciousness. So he swallows, his throat hurting, and turns his gaze away from Tanaka’s, feeling frustrated and bitter.

"Kame. Taguchi said you acted strangely yesterday, asked him to give you a massage and when he discovered that you have major problems with your shoulders and back, you suddenly fled so fast, he thought your hair was on fire. Care to explain? He called me yesterday evening, all worried, said you seriously need to see a doctor.”

"Taguchi should just mind his own business. What does he know about massage anyways?”

"I do believe you’re missing the main point here. And what, for heaven’s sake, happened to your voice?”

Kamenashi gives out a loud whine as to dismiss the annoying man, tiredly waving his hand at him.  Tanaka rolls his eyes at him, gathering the leftover dishes from the table and haphazardly wiping the stains with dirty napkins, bringing everything into the kitchen; he continues lecturing Kamenashi on the importance of keeping the place clean and different methods on how to relieve the pains in his back. He even goes as far as to mention the yoga program his girlfriend has recently got into, and Kamenashi’s eyes burn holes into the wall separating his living room from the damned kitchen. The silent mantra of _shut up shut up shut up_ fills his doodled over mind.

He drags his sweatpants off and starts tugging on his flaccid cock furiously.

He can’t hear Tanaka’s nagging anymore, in fact, he doesn’t hear a thing; he just focuses all his senses on his arousal - the only thing that’s still able to make him feel alive. He gives out tiny muffled moans, his thumb rubbing over the slit, his cock heavy and pulsating on his fingers, when a sudden ruckus throws him out of his dreamland and the pace of his fingers falters.

"What… What are you doing?”

"Getting my mind off things.”

Kamenashi rasps out, unwillingly slowing down and whining desperately at the same time; he is so exhausted and bothered he has no drive to continue doing it at the pace he’s used to. He arches off the coach, his eyes open wide, desperate, begging, the want to get to his climax unbearable; there, at the back of his mind, the dark and powerful subconscious makes him want to smirk smugly as he catches the look on Tanaka’s face. The man stands a single step away from him, his fists clenched at his sides, the dropped and forgotten bottle of water lying at his feet; there is so much unyielding lust in his stare as he observes the other’s cock squeezed in the latter’s hands, Kamenashi is almost surprised the man is still able to keep his hands to himself. _touch me come on touch me_ he won’t say it out loud. Tanaka licks his lips, momentarily closing his eyes as he lets a delicious tremor run down his spine; but a second later, he opens his eyes again, hungry for the show, staring at the engorged head of Kamenashi’s dick and frowns because the other’s trembling hands are not moving.

"Why did you stop?”

He whispers it so quietly Kamenashi barely catches it behind their loud panting noises inside the big otherwise soundless room. He licks his dry lips in annoyance, trying to control his own voice, too far gone to feel embarrassment or shame.

"Help me.”

Kamenashi yelps when Tanaka slaps his hands away, his eyes suddenly so ferocious as he engulfs his cock, and tries deep-throating him on the very second slide down; it feels weird because Tanaka is not very experienced at blowjobs, even though Kamenashi knows him to be one of those people who has willingly tried everything that concerns sex. Still, he looks like he’s enjoying himself as his pierced tongue rubs the underside of Kamenashi’s cock and makes the latter groan in the long-awaited pleasure. Involuntarily, Kamenashi grabs Tanaka’s wrists that lie on his thighs and squeezes them each time the earring on Tanaka’s tongue brushes over his slit. Drowned in the pleasure, he fails to notice the pained expression on the other’s face and Tanaka sends him a warning look, his pace faltering. Kamenashi whines for him not to stop, his grip on the man’s wrists growing stronger.

The next moment Tanaka falls back on his elbows, ripping his hands out of Kamenashi’s clenched fists.

"It hurts, Kame, stop squeezing so much!”

He’s met with silence as Kamenashi disappears inside his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

◊

He silently lets Ueda in, carefully closing the door behind the sombre man who takes no time to tip off his boots and step into the flat, immediately moving in the direction of his bedroom. As Kamenashi quietly shuffles in after him, closing this door as well, as if afraid someone would walk in on them, Ueda responds with nothing to the other’s weird quirks, an arch of his brow indicating that he’s just acknowledged Kamenashi’s presence. Ueda is dressed in all black, resembling a scary overgrown raven and Kamenashi has to hold back a shudder; he hasn’t been doing well with the “scary” since his worn out brain keeps supplying him with enough of heart chilling illusions.

"Remember, I’m doing it only because you are so desperate even though I know you’re not feeling well these days. Koki told me how you got mad as fuck, threw a tantrum and left him hard and bothered in the middle of your living room the other day.”

Ueda gives out a squeaky giggle as he pulls his black skinny jeans and socks off and carefully puts them on the chair near the bed. Kamenashi just glares at nothing in particular, having actually expected Tanaka to tell everything to Ueda.

"Yeah, well, I just feel like shit these days. I feel absolutely dead and there’s such a mess in my head, I just can’t cope with all the nasty thoughts I’ve been having.”

"What thoughts?”

Ueda looks mildly interested, his curious eyes examining Kamenashi’s annoyed expression, as he drags off his black wifebeater and stuffs it into his huge bag that is also colored black, as if purposefully mocking Kamenashi.

"Of all sorts.”

He shrugs disinterestedly and waits for Ueda to approach him, his sweatpants forgotten in a dirty heap on the floor.

Having worked too much and having drained himself to the very core, the last couple of years made Kamenashi ask Ueda for a certain agreement strictly between the two of them; when Kamenashi feels that he is approaching his limit, mental _and_ physical, when the bout of his insomnia takes a dramatic turn, he asks Ueda to do him a favor. Ueda is at his best with favors like this one; he is quick and sharp but gentle enough not to really hurt him. Kamenashi lets Ueda take advantage of him, his body, and Ueda willingly takes the opportunity and experiments to his heart’s content. All with one opportunity: make Kamenashi forget. Exhaust him to the point where he feels absolutely nothing, thinks absolutely nothing and ceases to exist in this original reality, flowing into a certain _zen_ state, as Ueda loves to call it, chuckling, where he spends at least half the next day; but if one dares to call a spade _a spade_ , Ueda makes Kamenashi fall asleep.   

And now Kamenashi needs Ueda’s help like never before.

"I have one request though; leave my shirt on and do not touch my shoulders. I… have an allergy.”

Ueda frowns as his fingers brush over the purple cotton on the other’s chest.

"I hope it’s nothing infectious, seriously.”

Kamenashi snorts at this remark, slightly hurt, but he has no time to feel offended by the straightforward man’s words; Ueda is shoving him into the wall, pleased to hear him groan in pain as his shoulders collide with the hard surface. A moment later he presses into him, all muscles and raw power, their chests together, and Ueda’s short black locks tickle Kamenashi’s face as the man leaves trails of telling bites on his neck and jaw; the palms of his hands harshly squeeze Kamenashi’s naked hipbones as he holds them before crushing into them, their crotches rubbing together, Kamenashi’s bare cock stinging at the rough touch. Ueda continues grinding into him at a peculiar angle, bruising his left hipbone, but bringing the much needed delicious friction to his cock. Never the eager one for a long prelude, Ueda grabs Kamenashi’s leg and folds it up to the man’s chest, Kamenashi’s pained moan and squeezed shut eyes indicating the poor state of his muscles; his stage play never ceased to ruin his body each and every day.

Three determined fingers circle his hole as if to warn him about the following pain and then surge upward, and Kamenashi pants, keen pain dissolving into his blood, travelling through his whole body, and the man drops his head on Ueda’s shoulder, having actual problems with his breathing. Ueda stretches his hole and tugs at his cock, now mouthing his ear as he ruts his own dick into Kamenashi’s thigh, seemingly unperturbed by the other’s strong reactions. When he finds the abused hole wide enough for his erection to fit in, he brings Kamenashi’s folded leg even higher, whispering for Kamenashi to get ready; his cock almost slips inside the other’s hole when he forgets about the request and puts his hand on Kamenashi’s shoulder for better handling.

Kamenashi howls into Ueda’s ear, pushing the man away so hard, he loses his balance and falls on the floor, his eyes wide in shock.

He thinks he sees Kamenashi clawing at his own shoulders when the guy runs to hide inside his bathroom.

◊◊

Ueda is drumming on his door and screaming for him to come out and let them both go the hospital, when Kamenashi finally trips over his own illusion like over a small stone on a bricked road made out of his own thoughts and hallucinations; his body feels light as he throws his shirt away just to take in the image even his reflection seems scared to present.

There are unearthly bumps and cracks running all over the once smooth skin of his shoulders and Kamenashi stares at them in a silent horror; his fingers run over the uneven surface but feel nothing other than the sting of the clawed off skin. He wants to be scandalized then, almost offended how his shoulders feel normal. In despair, he gives out a pained sob and absent-mindedly drags his fingers through his messy hair, combing them out of his face, the long silvery locks tickling his nose.

Kamenashi thinks his palms stumble upon something hard and pointy right on the crown of his head and he faints.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also read this fic at my [LJ](http://isolated-killer.livejournal.com/35792.html#cutid1).


End file.
